


Undertaker

by vaultboii



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Gen, commission, first encounters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: In a small village, an undertaker stares down death.





	Undertaker

**Author's Note:**

> another commission by anonymous! My commission information is at https://apexianthoughts.tumblr.com/post/179489167030/writing-commissions

When he hunted, he thought of the young fools.

Remembered how they squealed, of course. Just like every other prey that had snagged its way into his grasp they squealed and cried, pleaded. The screams they shouted at each other had been sweet. So sweet. Thresh still could recall the tremor of shadow that slipped over the male’s tongue when he had drawn the first blood, took her soul.

What a delicious noise.

“Please don’t,” the bartender whimpered.

More delicious than now, if he recalled correctly. Thresh drew a harsh hiss through his teeth, carelessly swayed the lamp back and forth in his hands. Would this one be worth the time, would they scream well? Quivering with sweaty palms, the mortal only cowered pathetic over their fallen patrons. “Please,” it whimpered again.

Thresh stiffened his snort. It appeared there would be nothing but pointless sobs and cries if he indulged today. A disappointing day today had been.

He growled. “ **Leave**.”

The bartender rushed by him to the exit, practically frothing. _How revolting._

Thresh had missed his victim again. The gunslinger had dodged him this time accidentally -- and of all his prey this mixup had been an unfortunate _accident_ for them both _._ He knew mockingly well how exciting the duel would have been _had_ Lucian caught wind that he was actively following him; but that mortal was a tricky one, damn near _impossible_ to catch up to. Wherever he heard rumours of a Purifier roaming the gunslinger was nowhere to be found, or it was some other fool. That hiding tested his patience.

He'd catch up. He always did.

However, this hunt had proven to be a waste of his time. None of this town had squealed, not a single soul in the bar of corpses. The silence could've been impressive if the town was more fierce in defending it. Instead every villager chose to perish with sealed lips, dying all so _quickly._

_Dull._

To the next town, then. He turned to leave.

“You missed him,” someone said.

Thresh turned back, sockets burning -- and found only an old man, glaring down a bottle. He was tucked away in a back booth, wings spread casually in a habit he assumed the old man was fond of. Bullet holes freckled the wall above him. His drinking partner was slumped over the table, cards strewn everywhere.

“Missed him, if you’re looking for the two-pistoled pissant. Left town three days ago.” The elder ruffled his wings and membrane, adjusting up and down all six of his arms. Green membrane freckled with brown dots shifted, dry. “Left high and quiet. Are you _Thresh_?”

Thresh looked down. “Mortal,” he said back coldly.

“Mhm. I can feel your gaze, you know,” the old man snorted and looked up. Dark shadows clouded his eyes, green tainted by shadows from overhead. Staring into his eyes, Thresh saw only tiredness and something _darker_ , tucked away behind hues of forest. “So you _are_ Thresh. Now, get on with it. Put me through the wall, strangle me, get it over with.”

He was bleeding, Thresh realized slowly. Blue blood was trailing down the side of one wing, a beautiful hue against the green of his membrane. If it bugged the old man he did not show discomfort or pain. Meeting his sockets the man took another swig of the bottle.

Thresh found his eyes drifting back to the green glint beneath that hard shell. This one wanted death, perhaps.

“You’re oddly hostile for someone so _old_ ,” he forced.

The elder snorted. In the bar it echoed quiet and foreboding. “Been told that a lot.” The man drew something up, and it unsheathed into a crooked halberd. The wraith tried to forget the anticipating shiver that rang through his arms at the noise. _Another hunter, then. Perhaps a good one._ “Quite insulting, if I say.”

Thresh hummed in response.

“But they say mortals grow less patient with age. Or was it the opposite? Bah,” the old man continued, flicked the halberd against the table. One of his hands was tracing his knee, tapping on leather impatiently. The wing twitched. “Now. Enough chatter. Will you end me? I have plenty of business to clean up after you if not.”

 _He reeks of souls_ , the voice urged on. _Good fighter. Will make excellent noise._

Absentmindedly Thresh found he was tracing his teeth.

The presumed undertaker watched, eyes still glinting. “If you want to know, the one you seek left for a town two miles north of here.” Another scrape of the halberd against the table. His eyes were so tired, so deep. Thresh could not find the soul in them. What had this man done to his soul? “Searching for a demon named Thresh, he said. Scourging the woods here.”

And then the man stood and heaved halberd into the table, through the hand of his fallen partner. The wood split. Crimson sprayed. Thresh watched, fascinated as the Elder pried gold from the severed fingers. “Now,” the undertaker rasped. “Don't you have something to do?”

How imprudent of that undertaker to make demands. His grip on the chains tightened, the lamp swayed one beat faster. It would be so easy to end him. So many ways, so little time. So many good, _welcome_ screams.

No. Thresh glared into those eyes and distaste curdled within him. This man would make _mocking_ screams, with those soulless eyes and bitter tongue. This one would enjoy the pain, the release. The process would be _dissatisfying_.

“You are crude to make demands, _undertaker_ ,” he sneered. “You shall not have it.”

Those eyes glinted steel. There was the soul, now -- sullen and cold, hardened in years. Thresh saw only a wall of isolation in those eyes, not even worth a meal of anguish. It reminded him of the bottle of ink, murky forever.

Though the undertaker did not show disappointment. “A spared soul? I am forever in your debt,” the old man said softly and stood. The dripping halberd dropped to his side, and he put one hand over his left breast. Old vows of respect in Runeterra, if those old memories still served Thresh well. It irked him.

He made to leave.

“However, in thanks I will take care of that bartender.” the old man said behind him and the wraith paused in the doorway. In the corner the man lift the bottle in a salute his way. “Best of luck with the pistol-pissant.”

As the voice trailed behind him Thresh mused, thought of the souls in his lamp. _No_ , there would be no enjoyment in reaping that undertaker. Too much a hunter was stained in his eyes. Not like the two young fools. That had been such a delicious noise.

He had patience. He would catch up to Lucian. Then there would be a good meal.

The wraith set off again.


End file.
